


Observations from the Panic Room

by Captain_Ackerman



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Free verse I suppose, Post-Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Probably not canonically accurate in one way or another
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 01:14:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7293496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Ackerman/pseuds/Captain_Ackerman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, we all need something to be remembered by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observations from the Panic Room

In a house solely occupied by a man so prepared for the worst that he barely knew the meaning of the word 'optimism',  
it was remarkable that the panic room was not in more frequent use. Rather, it's most common occupant had been the shaggy haired 'son-of-sorts',  
whom Bobby had taken under his metaphorical wing and, more often than not, his literal roof.  
As much as he'd tried, Bobby could not quite rid the walls of the stench of demon blood, or the blood stains on the bed that were undeniably Sam's, but  
perhaps it was his way of marking his territory in that clouded, addict's mind, and Bobby would soon learn to leave these little pieces of him alone.  
It seemed fitting to all who had known him that Sam's blood should be their lasting reminder of the man who had bled for them more than any other.  
It had been weeks, and yet Bobby still occasionally found long strands of hair around the house, and he never quite had the heart to move them,  
so he left them to float like dismembered cobwebs,vand to find their way out one way or another.  
Without a stone to mark his passing, their dysfunctional family found a memorial in these sorts of little things.  
Bobby's subtle refusal to move any book left by him, be it at a strange angle atop a bookcase,  
or scattered across the floor besides a whiskey glass. 'It's rightful place', he had muttered, to no one in particular ,or perhaps to reassure himself.  
It was found in Dean's devotion to throwing himself into any task that would distract him.  
He wanted to clean the house, to wipe away any trace so he, so they, wouldn't have to remember.  
But however hard he toiled, every book he moved would be back where it started by the first glimpse of morning.  
And it was found in Castiel's silence. In his turned back, his glazed eyes and how he choked on the words so elected to say nothing at all.  
But most of all they found their solace in how, despite being locked in iron and salt,  
the walls of the panic room still echoed with the ghost of Sam Winchester.

**Author's Note:**

> Were you inspired by my less than eloquent prose?  
> Well, buckle up, gentlemen, this is just the beginning.


End file.
